The engine roars as the cold air whips my hair, Passion is driving full throttle while I ride shot gun.
We fly through the night, speeding towards our destination, You. Population 1, soon to be 2.
I become a polyglot in your presence, my body speaks fluently, a langue I’ve never heard uttered aloud. Words I did not know, tumble out of my mouth.
A single stroke through my scalp is more than enough to cast a spell over me. Your hands all over me conduct an orchestra a soft murmurs and whimpers, a song that never ceases.
I am soft clay, begging to be thrown on the wheel.
Spin me, shape me, fire me, break me
Jun 9, 2025
Jun 9, 2025 at 1:23 AM UTC
You bring tornadoes through me.
Furious infatuation fills my torso.
Thunder cracks between my thighs,
the lightening is warm and shuddering.
My hunger for you is never ending,
rolling over hills like clouds about to burst.
I do not need to wait for rain.
I am drenched in anticipation,
I am trembling like the fault line.
There are no lines between us,
only a small distance buzzing with electricity.
Our tides are ripping,
Our currents,
pulling and luring.
You are the waves rising to my knees,
the breeze teasing my shoulders.
You are the calm,
You are the storm.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 6:34 PM UTC
I never dreamed of sitting in the meadows that blossom in your chest. I only allowed myself a small window to hope, to wish, to crave. I know now that it was big enough to climb through. We were meant to align, to feel the pull of each other, to recognize the thirst. We are lock and key. We are the lonesome trees, greeting lighting. We are the sound of jars taking their first breath after so long. We. It tastes so soft when I say it, falling out of my mouth like honey vanilla.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 2:28 AM UTC
My heart is a deck
with vein blue grip tape
and you are the wheels.
The trucks get looser
and looser
and before I know it
I am
swerving
across the white line,
dipping into love
like it’s a bike lane.
I cannot steer
with you
holding my hands.
The sun is a retired drum set
beating
on my shoulders,
your hands
land on my hips
with the sound of cymbals
murmuring.
Our melody is silent
banging,
the sweat
and the blood pressure,
the only remnants
of the music.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 10:37 AM UTC
the soil in my soles
is wet
this time of year
the cracks
filled with summer sun
are mending
the seeds
of recovery
have been carefully
placed between
my veins
with every heart beat
I can feel the green
starting to make way
to the surface
it will be a long autumn
blooming with sobriety
nursing the chrysanthemums
adorning my lucidity
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 4:53 AM UTC
I heard someone utter the words,
"Sober is just another word for thirsty."
And I did not believe her.
Until my throat started itching,
the moment I stopped the stitching
of molecules that altered me,
turned me around,
I had been treading backwards.
My body ached with vacancy,
my hands trembled with an appetite
that played the part of
of my hands on the wheel.
It is an agonizing contradiction,
to be weighed down by nothing,
every drop that plunged into my mouth,
every plume that escaped
the narrow path to my lungs
was a nail in my soles,
keeping me firm to the ground,
I became stagnant,
only dipping under the influence
to ask for what I thought
was needed assistance.
My temporarily
stainless bloodstream
bred venomous ideas
while the darkest parts of me quivered
with insatiable hunger,
and made a show of it
with my fluttering fingertips.
I had dreamt
on nearly every day of the week
with my eyes open,
of clawing my out of this
canyon of flesh
I had been trapped inside of,
the echoes of an empty heart
were enough
to keep me awake for days,
witnessing a continuum,
of sunset,
sunrise,
sunset,
sunrise,
yet the sky never brightened.
The darkness was addictive,
I became a ****** for the murky,
and I have been buried.
Underneath habits
that stifle me.
Smoke that leaves my lungs
no room
for new air.
There is an invisible layer
of soot
caked onto my skin
falling from my nights spent
drunk and unaware
of which direction
I was growing.
My odometer
slowly screams
for me to stop,
to reverse,
begin again.
My shower head works hard.
It tries to bathe me in rebirth.
The shampoo bottle whispers
with its shape,
asks me to sing again.
Why did I stop singing?
Because I no longer enjoyed the sound of my voice.
I stopped believing in it.
Drenched in half truths
and uncut delusions,
my tongue was poison.
I had denied the beautiful methods
of me.
And employed the ugly.
I gave a managerial promotions
to the mean
the spitting mad
and the angry
slices of my heart.
But I will dig through
these concrete slabs
of toxic routines.
And I will take back my beauty
and revive my love.
And become who I am,
climbing out of who I have been.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 3:14 PM UTC
How do you get those boots on?
I’ve never seen any straps or laces or snaps or velcro.
When did you know you could fly?
Did you fall out of a tree when you were five and missed the ground?
How does Gravity feel about this?
Does that spandex itch?
Do you wear underwear under the spandex under your underwear?
Do those cuffs rub against your forearms?
How does it feel to a lift a car?
Like a tin can?
Like a paper bag?
Like a bucket of feathers?
What it is like to look eighty stories down and know that you are safe, that you can always save yourself?
Do you have a sixth or seventh sense?
Does it ever wake you in the night?
Do you experience the blistering heat and the chilling cold?
Do you feel it in your bones like I do?
Do you want to destroy your living room when someone has lied to you like I do?
Have you ever destroyed your living room when someone has lied to you?
Does your cape get stuck in the elevator doors?
Do you ever take the elevator?
Do you ever take the remote into the kitchen during a commercial break?
Can you stay on the couch and reach all the way to the counter?
Do you wear a mask?
Does it leave those red marks like my glasses do on my nose?
Do you want **** people who are dangerous and rotten in some places on the inside with one hand?
Does evil reside in you as well?
Apr 12, 2012
Apr 12, 2012 at 3:23 PM UTC
My heart begins to
quiver, and makes a show of
my trembling hands.
Apr 9, 2012
Apr 9, 2012 at 1:19 AM UTC
I never walk through a crowd without scanning for the back of your head.
Those beautiful black strands dancing just above your shoulders
lure me to those blades
that you sharpen during the day and you pull out at night.
They threaten but their beckoning is stronger.
When I squint hard enough, I can see the magnets in your hands.
Your fingers brushed mine enough to configure my blood to run in your direction.
Like the river you are everywhere.
Every branch sways with your rhythm.
You have a beautiful act. And you never revealed all of your secrets.
I am here
and you are here
but we have disappeared.
Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 2:05 AM UTC